Phantom of the Restaurant
by marinoa
Summary: A Phantom?  Francis Bonnefoy didn't believe in ghosts, but little did he know that after entering his new workplace he would have to check his opinions. AU, oneshot.


AN: First of all: this fic has nothing to do with the _Phantom of the Opera_. Only the name refers to it. And second... well, enjoy! ^^ This somehow grew about twice as long as I meant it to be, but try not to mind it too much.

**Phantom of the Restaurant**

The building was gorgeous; it was built of stone in somewhat Gothic style, had four floors and a spacious cellar and didn't look like belonging in London in the last year of the nineteenth century. Francis Bonnefoy fell in love with it instantly. Which was good, since now that particular pearl of architecture was to become both his workplace and his home.

Francis pulled heavy, old keys out of his bag, where he had his belongings, but didn't unlock the oak door right away. Instead he touched the cold surface of the wall with his fingertips, carefully, gently, as to make himself known to the building, to introduce himself. He hadn't admired anything so much since he had arrived to England a couple of years ago, not even the great palaces in the centre of London, but this, this place was different. This place had a spirit – a soul.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" the interviewer had asked Francis two days ago when the Frenchman had applied for the job. Francis had blinked, taken aback by the question, and then laughed airily. Ghosts? Hardly. Oh those silly Englishmen – seeing ghosts wherever they looked. The interviewer had given him a smile and warned that his opinion was likely to be changed, for rumours said that there was a phantom living in the building, had been ever since the building was built a couple of centuries ago, and after it had been changed into a fancy restaurant several months ago, the phantom had been dissatisfied.

"Spirits give food a special taste," Francis had laughed and then shrugged the whole thing off his mind.

Now, looking at the rugged building, it was easy to believe that it was occupied by ghosts. That was, if you were and Englishman with too wild imagination. But Francis did admit that the place had its own special feeling in its atmosphere, and appreciated it. He was now a French chef in in that newly established restaurant, and no restaurant could ever be perfect without a soul. Giving one more glance on the gorgeous façade, he finally opened the lock and pushed the heavy door open.

No phantoms did Francis see when he stepped inside, but two young, pretty maids instead. One of them had long, light brown hair and friendly eyes, the other was blond-haired and had cold eyes and a withdrawn expression on her face. First Francis thought it was because she was shy or just in a bad mood, but later he learned that she always looked sullen.

The brown-haired lady smiled kindly and greeted the Frenchman. "Oh, you must be Francis!" she exclaimed. "Welcome here! My name is Elizaveta, I work here as a maid and a waitress. Actually," the lady, Elizaveta as Francis made sure to remember, added and nodded towards the blond girl beside her. "We both do. This is Natalia."

"Pleased to meet you both," Francis said, instantly liking the friendly maid. He flashed a smile to the blonde, but she just glared at him and nodded slightly, her hands forming fists. Elizaveta laughed at the Frenchman's puzzled face and tapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, she's always like that," she said. "You'll get used to it."

And after a few days, Francis did. Much thanks to Elizaveta, he soon became familiar with the huge, castle-like building and its other inhabitants as well as with the way everything was ran in the restaurant. The Frenchman was quick to adopt to the routine of the house, and due to his social personality and help of Elizaveta, he soon developed friendships with most of other workers. As early as in the two first days Francis had grown particularly close with Antonio and Gilbert, a Spaniard and a German, who insisted on still being a Prussian, but he was in friendly terms with the almost everybody, such as two Italian brothers and even a Russian, whose sisters Natalia and one other waitress, Katyusha, appeared to be.

The restaurant itself was wonderful; the dining hall for guests was rather roomy and romantic in its traditional design, and unlike Francis had first assumed, it was very popular among fancy people who appreciated high quality, even though it was quite far from the central London. One reason to the popularity of the restaurant was also that it had a unique variability in the nationalities of chefs working there. Among other fine dishes, the restaurant was able to offer food of different countries, made by the natives.

However, only one part of the building was for the restaurant and the enormous kitchen. On the first floor there were also several rooms for possible though rare overnight guests. On the second and the third floor instead were the private rooms of the staff. On the second floor there was a spacey living room and most of the bedrooms of the residents of the house. Few people, including the Frenchman, had their rooms on the third floor, while the fourth floor was hardly ever visited. The storage room and some kind of attic were located there, but it was rare that someone had any business there. And down under the first floor, there was the huge cellar where food and wines were kept.

Francis adjusted to the daily routine easily; the chefs who had a day shift woke up at seven in the morning and worked till the late afternoon, after which chefs who had the evening shift took care of their responsibilities, finishing only after midnight. No one had reasons to complain, chefs were taking turns in having both night and day shifts, and everything worked fluently; everybody of the team knew their tasks and responsibilities in the house and the team was good-spirited. Francis found very soon that he enjoyed his new workplace a lot. Instead, what he _didn't_ find, were the signs of anything supernatural. Not that he had expected to find any; he had just thought that since there were rumours, there should have also been even _something_ that caused them. However rationally they could have been explained. Anyway, no one said anything concerning the phantom, and the Frenchman forgot all about ghosts and focused on his work in the new place.

It was the fourth evening since his arrival, when Francis was told about the infamous phantom for the first time. He was enjoying his free evening with Elizaveta, the Italian brothers, Antonio and several other people in the living room on the second floor, when the phantom was finally mentioned.

"By the way," Elizaveta said, adding a log into the fireplace. "I think the Phantom has awaken once again. I had just cleaned the hallway and gone out of there for literally few seconds, and when I came back, the floor had black stains on it."

Francis arched his eyebrow ever so elegantly. "The Phantom?"

"Oh!" Antonio exclaimed, as wide smile on his face. "Right, Francis doesn't know about the Phantom yet!"

Elizaveta gasped theatrically. "He doesn't?"

"Well," Francis said, unimpressed. "I've heard that there is a ghost or something here."

"'A ghost or something'." Elizaveta shook her head and tsk-ed.

"Francis, it's _the_ _Phantom!_" Feliciano, younger of the two Italians, exclaimed enthusiastically, swinging his arms around. "He has lived here since the house was built long long time ago and rules here-"

"Shut up!" Romano, the older of the brothers, smacked his brother. "Stop yelling like that!"

"Aww, Romano," Antonio laughed cheerily, throwing his arms around the said Italian and earning himself a hit on the head for that. "You always become so nervous when we talk about the Phantom..."

"Shut up bastard! I don't! Let go of me!" the angry Italian yelled, but didn't show too much effort to release himself from the grip of the Spaniard.

"But brother, I was just telling Francis-" Feliciano interrupted apologetically and Antonio laughed, patting his head with one hand, attempting to hold Romano with the other. "Don't worry, Feliciano, your brother is just a bit scared~"

"I'm not, you stupid tomato-bastard!"

Elizaveta giggled at them and Francis watched the trio, particularly Antonio and Romano, with great interest. He had noticed as early as on his first day that there was something between the two chefs, and being who he was, Francis was much more interested in real people and their relations than old tales and spirits.

"Anyway," Elizaveta turned her attention back to the Frenchman. "Sometimes something mysterious that can't be explained happens here. Weird prints where no one has left them. Hollow sounds particularly at nights. Things disappear." Elizaveta leaned closer to Francis and lowered her voice. "Spoiled cooking."

"Spoiled cooking?"

"Indeed," the Hungarian maid said, grinning. "We have few times found horrible food that has been made by none of us. And sometimes, yes, sometimes..." She was whispering now. "_He_ spoils meals that chefs have prepared."

Francis burst into laughter. "Or maybe chefs spoil their food themselves and only need a phantom to blame," he suggested, laughing. "Seriously guys, don't blame innocent ghosts for your own failures."

Elizaveta pouted as her words hadn't been taken seriously, and Antonio finally let Romano go and joined the conversation again. "It's all true what she said!" he protested surprisingly happily. "Even my cooking has been spoiled, three times even!"

But Francis just laughed and shook his head, amused. He didn't believe in such things as ghosts and considered the story only a mere inside joke or alike. It took him few more days and his own cooking getting ruined to start believing that there was _something_ true behind the story.

Francis had made a cake one evening, a big, creamy strawberry cake. He had put it in the cellar so that it would be ready for being served the next morning, and made sure that no rats could ever even smell it. And yet, when Francis had found his cake the next morning, there had been a neatly cut piece missing. First the Frenchman hadn't even thought about the Phantom. Instead he had attacked his friends like a furious wasp, but everybody swore they hadn't touched the cake. Francis had frowned and then sighed, and then he had given the others the permission to eat the cake; half eaten, it could not be served anyway. Antonio had been the first one to take a bite, and his comment had been simple. "This is awful!"

That was the moment when Francis Bonnefoy had started believing in the Phantom.

Because, his strawberry cake was never awful – he was a master in baking! Only once had he spoiled his own strawberry cake, and that had been the first time he had tried making one. So Francis came to the only and obvious conclusion – someone must have done something to the cake in the night, after first eating a piece of it.

Since the cake incident, Francis started to pay more attention to the stories about the Phantom. According to them, the Phantom was very quiet; he didn't make any howling noises in the dead of night or throw things around. The only sounds the Phantom produced were occasional steps in the corridors or thumps somewhere behind – or inside – the strong walls. Quite often there was also food and wines, mostly rum, disappeared from the kitchen and the cellar, and every now and then he would mess with the chefs' cooking; few times there had even been found something horrible resembling self-made scones. Those had been the only times when the Phantom had actually terrified the staff nearly to death, so distasteful had he scones been. But otherwise, the Phantom apparently lived his life in peace and let the restaurant team live its. He seemed to spend most of his time in his secret chambers, making his nightly trips only once, twice a week.

This all got Francis very interested. He didn't believe in ghosts, but this particular phantom was real. Literally _real –_ of flesh and blood; spirits didn't eat, and even of they did, certainly not strawberry cakes. It was a human being behind the name of the Phantom. And since Francis was always interested in people, particularly in as fascinatingly mysterious as the Phantom of the restaurant was, both his rational and curious sides urged him to reveal the secret of this little "ghost".

Francis started listening very carefully. All the time he was alone, he stayed alert, attempting to hear every sound that could possibly be caused by Phantom. He started peeking into the furthermost, darkest corners, wishing for his eyes to catch every movement in the shadows. And indeed – in several days he started to recognise the sound of almost silent steps somewhere in the corridors he couldn't quite locate, and doors opening and closing carefully in places he didn't know had doors. So after a little time, Francis came to the conclusion that there were secret corridors which Phantom used, and that this child of night lived on the fourth floor, in hidden chambers. So the Frenchman started to scour the uppermost rooms and the storage room in his free time – to no avail.

"You are obsessed with the Phantom," Gilbert told him one day. "Stop fooling around and let it be. Stalking is not awesome."

Francis didn't stop, however, and it didn't take long for the Phantom to apparently notice that he was being observed. He became more careful and more difficult to hear, which Francis cursed.

But then the Frenchman discovered that the Phantom stole one bottle of rum once a week – there would always be one bottle less after Thursday nights. And that gave Francis an idea of how to finally catch the Phantom.

The next Thursday evening Francis decided to sacrifice his sleep of the following night. He took a warm, dark cloak – it would be cold waiting possibly the whole night – and a candle, and climbed down the stairs to the cellar. The air was heavy and a bit humid, and it was almost pitch dark down there, but Francis didn't light the candle yet; he didn't want to give himself away to the Phantom. He made his way to the shelves where alcohol drinks were kept and made himself as comfortable as possible in the corner, leaning against the wall, hidden behind a couple of wooden boxes. And waited.

And waited.

Soon Francis found out how incredibly difficult it was to stay awake after a day of hard work in the kitchen and with absolutely nothing to entertain himself with. With every passing minute his eyelids started to feel heavier and heavier, and it didn't take long when he, after closing his eyes, noticed that they were too heavy to be opened again.

Francis didn't catch the Phantom that night. But the Phantom didn't get his bottle of rum, either.

The whole thing wasn't the Frenchman's fault. Because, really, how could he have known that the Phantom used a secret corridor to get into the cellar, and that the door of the corridor happened to be in the corner right where Francis was leaning his back?

So when the Phantom carefully opened his secret door, he wasn't expecting a drowsy Frenchman falling on top of him. And frankly speaking, neither was the said Frenchman expecting that.

Francis' eyes flew wide open as he felt the – as he had thought – wall giving in behind his back and found himself falling backwards few steps of a stairway, landing on something – someone – soft.

"Bloody hell!" he heard someone groaning with very British accent beneath himself, but was too giddy to react.

"What the fu-" the voice continued and then cut itself off. "Get off me!" it suddenly yelled and Francis felt being pushed on the cold, hard floor.

That was when he finally came back to his senses.

"Hey!" he cried, jumping on his feet. "You! Stop!"

But to no avail; the Phantom was well on his way into the total darkness of the secret corridor. Francis could barely hear his steps, and the faint sound soon disappeared completely. Rubbing his head that had fortunately received no damage in the incident, the Frenchman figured it wouldn't be any use to exploring the corridor at that point; the Phantom likely knew where to hide so Francis wouldn't find him anyway, and on top of that, the Frenchman was tired. So he memorised the location of the secret door and climbed up the three steps back into the cellar, closing the door behind himself.

Even though the events had got an unexpected turn, Francis thought on his way to his room, the night hadn't gone to waste; at least he had got new information about the Phantom. A smile kept tugging on the Frenchman's lips as he thought about what had just happened. So, his little Phantom appeared to be an Englishman, of all possible creatures. Not that bad of a start.

xXx

Unfortunately Francis' good luck didn't last. When the Frenchman the next day returned to the secret door, he found that apparently it didn't open from outside. Francis tried everything: pushing and pulling, trying every stone in case there was a hidden mechanism to open the door, and even listing all the magic words from "_sesam open_" to "_please_"– of no avail. The door was and remained closed.

To boot, like Francis had expected, the Phantom stayed hidden. He didn't return for a bottle of rum and he didn't show himself to the Frenchman. This all was extremely frustrating for Francis; he had been _this_ close – but now he was even further than when he had started seeing that the Phantom knew he was after him and now was even more careful. Yet the frustration instigated the Frenchman's passion for becoming acquainted with the Phantom to burn with even greater force, so he, lacking any better ideas, relied on a very simple method.

Francis wrote the Phantom a note.

_I want to talk with you_, he scribed on a piece of paper and took it to the cellar. He slipped it into the secret corridor through the tiny gap between the door and the floor, and after that, all he could do was waiting.

Knowing the hiding character of the Phantom, it was likely that the Frenchman would never receive a reply to his note. Thus, when he on the fourth evening after writing to the Phantom found a small, folded piece of paper on his bedside table in his bedroom, he was positively surprised. And very amused.

"So you want to show me who is who by showing you have an access into my room," he said aloud, chucking lightly as he picked the paper into his hands. His smile, however, faded as soon as he unfolded the note and read the whole _two_ _letters_ on it.

_No._

"Oh so?" The Frenchman frowned, tossing the note into a trash bin. But then his face melted into a smile again.

If he knew anything about people, it was that they wanted company. Those who didn't, stayed far from other people. And this Phantom was not an exception; if he _really_ hadn't any desire to rub elbows with Francis, he wouldn't even have bothered with replying the Frenchman's note, not to mention leaving the answer in the Frenchman's own bedroom.

And the next night, yet one bottle of rum disappeared from the cellar.

Francis decided he wouldn't put too much pressure on his little ghost yet – he would approach him delicately, get him used to himself, slowly, like taming a wild animal, to make him feel secure. Patience was a virtue, now wasn't it? So, instead of lurking the Phantom in the cellar, Francis began leaving there notes. And surprisingly, he began getting replies.

_My name is Francis. Who are you?_

_Phantom._

_Yeah right, phantoms do fall down the stairs all the time. -F_

_That's because half-sleeping frogs fall on them. -P_

_Phantoms don't drink rum. -F_

_I do. -P_

_Tell me who you are. _S'il vous plaît_? -F_

_Sorry, I don't speak frog. -P_

The notes appeared irregularly, three, four times a week. Francis didn't even notice how soon he became addicted to the small pieces of paper that he found sometimes in his room, sometimes in the cellar where he always left his. Likewise, the Phantom seemed to lower his guards a bit, and the notes started to contain more than just shallow comments.

_Why are you playing a phantom here?_ Francis once asked in his note.

_I lived here before the house was changed into a restaurant,_ was the reply.

_I thought this house was empty before,_ Francis commented to that.

_It was,_ was written in the next note the Frenchman received, and somehow to Francis, it sounded very sad.

_Aren't you lonely here, living alone as a phantom?_ he asked. He had to wait for an answer for three days then, but eventually it appeared on his bedside table.

_Better than living on the streets. They are even lonelier._

Francis didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing for two days. However, the short lines the Phantom wrote him got the Frenchman even more interested in him, in his past and present life, and the more glimpses his Phantom offered him about his life, the more Francis yearned for meeting him in person.

_Why won't you let people here know that you live here?_ He finally questioned on the paper.

The answer came as early as in the same evening. _A phantom is not considered a thief. A man on the contrary, is. And I don't pay for my food here._

A phantom people can't hurt, a man, they can, Francis read between the lines. So he asked the question he really wanted to know an answer to. _Then why do you trust me?_

The reply was short and honest. _I don't._

And Francis knew it was true, otherwise the Phantom would have shown himself instead of leaving mere brief notes. Suddenly it struck the Frenchman that it actually hurt him a bit; they had exchanged, well, notes, for over a month, and yet his Phantom kept himself hidden, didn't even bother telling his name. So the very same evening Francis decided that it was enough of taming – time to catch the little bird.

After considering different options, he came to the conclusion that he would use the same method as he had used the first time: hiding. This time, though, he chose a place further from the shelf and secret door. That way he would have a better view on the events.

So in the evening Francis crept down into the cellar and positioned himself between old, wooden boxes. Cursing the morning shift he had the next day, he settled down and waited.

And waited.

Francis didn't catch the Phantom that night. It wasn't his fault; he didn't even fall asleep. The Phantom simply didn't appear.

"man, you look horrible," Gilbert complimented him the next morning after the nearly sleepless night. "Are you alright?"

Francis only grunted in response, not even considering telling the whole truth. "Didn't sleep well." He wasn't in his best mood right then, and the Prussian understood enough to let him be.

The day passed slowly, oh so slowly, and finally after all dizzying hastiness Francis couldn't take it anymore; he left two hours earlier than he was supposed to, but Gilbert tapped his back and promised to carry the remaining part of his shift, too. Grateful to his friend, Francis stumbled to his room.

_I won't give up_, he thought, throwing himself on his bed. _Tonight, I'll try again. And again and again, until I finally get to talk with him. No matter what it'll take._

Having made the decision the Frenchman felt slightly better. He felt vaguely that it wasn't like him to be so... obsessed with something like that, but the thought quickly disappeared as his mind drifted into blessed sleep.

After a good afternoon nap and three cups of black coffee Francis felt better again and ready for a new try. So when the evening fell, he was ready at the same spot that he had chosen last night. And this time he was lucky.

Well after the midnight Francis heard quiet rustling and slowly, very slowly, the secret door started to open. It was astonishing how silently the door made of stone could open, but Francis assumed the Phantom had practised a lot to achieve that.

First the Frenchman saw only darkness behind the door – apparently his Phantom knew the corridors well enough to move there without any light. But soon Francis' eyes started to distinguish a dark figure cautiously peeking into the cellar. It was too dark to see the features properly -again, Francis hadn't lit the candle though it was with him- but the pale skin of the Phantom glowed on the contrast to his black clothing and the darkness in the room.

Francis held his breath, afraid to scare his Phantom away, as the said figure carefully closed the door as quietly as it had been opened and sneaked towards his precious rum. It was an ideal moment for the Frenchman to get out of his hideout, but he didn't move. It was like some kind of magic spell had been inflicted on him. Never before had he _seen_ his Phantom – the one time they had "met" in the cellar, he had barely seen his retreating back, draped in black cloak. But now, _now_ the Phantom was unaware of the eyes trained on him, and Francis couldn't help being enchanted by the way the dark figure moved.

His Phantom moved like a cat, pliantly and gracefully, skilfully avoiding all the boxes and empty bags and whatever junk there was on the floor. It was like he could see in the dark as well as other creatures of night, Francis thought, almost starting to believe that the figure truly was a _phantom_, so silently did it move.

But then the Phantom overbalanced and the captivating illusion dissolved. Francis shook his head slightly to evaporate silly thoughts in his mind and decided to go – it was now or never. Carefully and with quietness equal to that of the Phantom's, the Frenchman stood up and crept towards his prey, who was now at the shelf, choosing the furthermost bottle. Just few more steps and he would almost be in Francis' reach...

The Phantom took the bottle and started to turn in order to return to where he had left from, and that was when Francis decided to make his presence known.

"_Bonsoir_, _monsieur_," he said, stilling within few steps from his Phantom.

The reaction was immediate. The bottle fell on the floor, glass shattering and the liquid spreading around, and the Phantom spun around, attempting to locate the danger. But the movement was too sudden on the now slippery floor, and he slipped on the wet stone, falling back with a yelp. On his way on the floor he hit his head against the edge of the shelf and ended up in a messy, whimpering bundle on the floor, soaked in rum.

Francis watched the show, momentarily paralysed, but then strode to his Phantom before he could get up and escape again. The Frenchman knelt beside the startled and visibly confused Phantom and lightly placed his hand on his chest. "_Désolé_," he said. "Are you alright?"

But the Phantom stirred as the hand touched him, and, perhaps because of being puzzled after a hit to his head, seemed to consider Francis someone else, a threat. He shoved the Frenchman's hand away and tried to hit him, but Francis stopped him by catching his wrist.

"Hush, don't worry, it's me, it's me," he hummed soothingly as the Phantom struggled to get free from the grip. "It's alright, everything is fine, calm down... It's me."

Slowly the Phantom stopped wriggling and Francis carefully let go of him. The Phantom, still lying on the floor, breathed few times in and out. "What the fuck are you doing?" he then suddenly spat, carefully sitting up on the floor and wincing, then glaring at the Frenchman.

"Ah," Francis said, not really listening. He was busy observing what he had caught.

His Phantom was young, maybe twenty-four at most, and had clear yet not too sharp features, which his incredibly pale skin highlighted. He had extremely messy, probably blond short hair that couldn't hide his rather big eyebrows. But what captured Francis' undivided attention were the eyes. They were green – even in the dark Francis could tell they were green. Green like a midnight forest, green like magic in the dead of night. Just for those eyes, Francis was ready to believe in magic.

He smiled, taken aback by what he saw. Because damn, his Phantom was cute.

"What the hell are you staring at?" the said Phantom demanded angrily.

"You," the Frenchman said smiling and the Phantom snorted, raising his hand to run it through his messy hair. A dark trail was left where the hand had touched his forehead and hair and Francis frowned. "Show me your left hand."

"Why would you need-" the Phantom started irritably, but was cut off by Francis, who simply grabbed the hand and brought it to his face.

"You are bleeding," he said, and true enough; there was a long and apparently rather deep cut on the Phantom's left palm. He touched it gently with his fingertips and the Phantom let out a surprised hiss of pain. "It seems you got yourself injured when you fell."

"Don't make it sound like it was my fault!"

"You are all soaked in rum, too," Francis continued and clicked his tongue, feeling his pockets and pulling out the small candle and matches he had in one of them. After lighting up the candle, he looked at his Phantom again and offered his hand. "Come, let me help you up."

"Like I needed any help in getting up!" the Phantom snorted and ignored the offered hand. Though, he didn't make any effort to get up by himself, either, probably still unsteady after the blow on his head.

"Is that so?" Francis straightened, grabbed the Phantom's right arm and with a sudden movement, dragged him up. A small sound escaped the green-eyed blonde's lips and he lurched, nearly collapsing after Francis let go of him. Holding the candle in one hand, the Frenchman quickly took a hold of him and guided the quietly cursing Englishman to sit on one of the wooden boxes. "See?" he said smugly. "You can't play a phantom if you are seeing stars. Now sit here, we'll have a better look at your wound."

With some light, the Frenchman could see the cut better. It was bleeding quite much for a mere cut on a palm, however deep it was, so Francis took off the short scarf he was wearing and started wrapping the injured hand in it. Neither of the men spoke meanwhile, though Francis surveyed his Phantom from the corners of his eyes. Whenever he looked, the Phantom had his incredibly vivid eyes on his wounded hand, and there was, Francis marked, a blush on his otherwise pale face. It was – actually it was very adorable.

"Finally we met," he said, finishing the self-made bondage and giving his Phantom a smile.

His words were met with a snort. "That's hardly a good thing. We have 'met' twice now, and both times I got injured."

Francis couldn't help grinning in response. "I'm sorry," he said, not quite as sorry as he perhaps ought to be.

"Whatever." The Phantom got to his feet. "I'm off."

Not again! "Wait!" Francis stopped him, grabbing his arm and refusing to let the other man go. "What is your name?"

The mysterious, enchanting green eyes glowed vividly in the candlelight and Francis knew that this time he would get an answer. _The streets are lonely_, the Phantom had told him, but the Frenchman knew that corridors were not any better; echoes were the only answers that cold walls gave.

And he was right.

The Englishman yanked his arm free, meeting the blue-eyed gaze and then averting it. "Arthur," he said.

And then the Phantom, _Arthur,_ hurried past the Frenchman towards his secret corridor, not looking back. However, he changed his direction mid-step and headed to the shelf with rum again.

"Wait," Francis called after him. Arthur looked at him warily, halting. Francis smiled. "Only one bottle a week," he said, smirking and pointing at the shrapnel on the floor. "And you already had this week's portion. Otherwise someone might notice."

The Englishman stared at him for few moments, as if considering something, then apparently resigned himself to the Frenchman's words and left the shelf untouched, half-running to the secret door.

"Arthur."

The door already open, the Englishman halted hesitatingly, not looking back. But as the Frenchman said nothing, he finally turned. "_What?_"

Francis gave him a warm smile. "Till the next time," he said. "_Bonne nuit_."

He got a quick, wide-eyed look from his Phantom before the door closed after him. A weird, thrilled feeling swelling in his stomach, Francis went to clean the mess on the floor.

He was finally getting to know his little Phantom.

xXx

After the incident in the cellar, Francis grew more and more determined to further develop his acquaintance with the Phantom. On the contrary, the Phantom – _Arthur_, Francis had to remind himself – was determined to avoid such chances, and soon it became a secret game of theirs – hide and seek, cat and mouse. Every now and then Francis would catch a glimpse of dark-cloaked Arthur when he was on his quest for food or just going for a walk either outside or inside the house, and the Englishman always noticed Francis, too. As a rule, Francis would stride after him, but every single time the Englishman would escape. As if just to tease the Frenchman, he seemed to run to a dead end in the endless corridors, making Francis believe that _this_ would be the time he would catch the Phantom, but then always somehow disappeared, leaving the Frenchman curding in frustration. No matter how hard Francis tried to find the way to open secret doors through which Arthur had disappeared, he always failed. Arthur had the advantage of having lived much longer in the old, castle-like building, thus knowing it better.

"What's wrong with you?" Gilbert once asked the Frenchman when they were finishing their night shift. "Lately you've been walking with your head in the clouds."

"Have I?" Francis asked absently, Arthur on his mind. It was funny that never once had he even considered sharing the Englishman with others. It was funny how he, almost in a jealous way, thought of the Englishman as _his_.

"Yeah," Gilbert said, slightly worriedly. "Seriously, buddy, are you okay?"

Francis opened his mouth to laugh and tell that of course he was okay, but the words somehow didn't leave his lips. Halting to actually ponder the question, he remained silent for a while. Was he okay? Arthur was driving him crazy with his hiding and catch-me-if-you-can, and already before had Francis noticed that the Englishman had the same effect on him as drugs. Every time Francis saw his Phantom he needed more, he needed so much more of him. He needed to hear him speak and touch him and see his brilliant emerald eyes just once more. Every time, just once more. The more he saw him, the more he wanted to see him again. Never enough.

Gilbert's concerned crimson eyes were still waiting for an answer. "Francis?"

"There is..." Francis said slowly, trying to find the right words. "There is someone on my mind. Constantly."

The Prussian's worried face melted into a grin. "Oh, so _that's_ what has been eating you," he almost laughed. "Well I suppose it was only a matter of time for that to happen. Who is it? There are plenty of workers who have been eyeing you that way."

Francis merely laughed and shook his head. When he had said there was someone on his mind, he hadn't meant it _that way_. He just wanted to get to know Arthur better.

But as those green eyes kept haunting his mind, intruding his dreams both when awake and sleeping every single day, Francis started to reconsider his previous opinions. As days kept passing by, it started to almost feel like he was being bewitched by his Phantom. And once when Francis finally burned the dish he was preparing while thinking of Arthur, _he, burning his own food_, only then did he realise that he was much deeper in the secrets of the Phantom than he was ever going to be.

xXx

Two days after ruining his own dish, Francis found Arthur in his room.

It had been a long and busy night shift again and Francis was tired. The only thing in his mind at that point was to go straight to bed and sleep until noon; thank God the next day was his day-off from work.

It took him an eternity to climb up the stairs on the third floor and it was a wonder he didn't fall asleep somewhere in between the first and third floors. Managing to get to his door, he opened it , got into his room and closed the door. Only then did he start registering the surroundings.

First he noticed that the room was illuminated with few candles on a small, wooden table in the corner beside the entrance of the room, even though he always put out the candles when he was about to leave the room for a longer time. Then his eyes fell upon a fallen chair at the table and he frowned – though not because the chair was supposed to stand on the floor but because Francis had forgotten to put it back after he had accidentally pushed it over in the morning. And after that he realised that there was someone sitting on his bed.

The Frenchman's bed was in the furthest corner from the door, just outside the reach of the candlelight. Arthur was sitting still, wearing his black cloak, and Francis had to look twice before being convinced that he wasn't merely hallucinating.

The green eyes were real, however, and Francis, recovering from his surprised state of mind, approached his bed and the Phantom sitting on it.

"Well isn't this rare," he said, suddenly far less sleepy and much more awake and... something else. "You, sitting still, not escaping for once. What brings me this honour?"

"You haven't told them about me, right?" Arthur half asked, his tone slightly pleading, ignoring the Frenchman's words. "They know nothing about me, right?"

Now that Francis was closer, he could see that the Englishman looked anxious. His fingers were restlessly fondling with the hem of his cloak as his eyes darted alternately around the room, alternately to Francis, both pleading and demanding for an answer.

"I haven't breathed a word about you," Francis assured him and sat right beside his Phantom. Maybe a little too close, he thought as the other man stirred and shifted slightly further so that their arms weren't touching anymore.

"I was seen today," Arthur said quietly and visibly nervously. "I was seen today and it's your fault."

Francis couldn't see how it would be his fault. Neither did he understand why it seemed to be so big a deal for his nightly guest, and so he shrugged. "Well, it's your fault that I burned my own dish the other day, so I guess we are even."

"Even!" Arthur almost spat the word. "What if they discover that it's a human being hiding here? That it's me?"

Francis didn't understand why the Englishman was so worked up. "_Oui_, what if?" he asked.

Arthur turned his wild eyes at the Frenchman. "I'm a thief!" he shouted and instantly lowered his voice to a hiss. "I'm a thief... Don't you fucking get it?"

"I'm sure you'll be forgiven, people here are very nice," Francis said, tapping the Englishman's back. "They barely even notice that a bit food is missing."

Arthur looked down at his hands and blushed. "You don't understand," he said quietly. "I- I was a thief before I moved here..."

"Oh." Francis stared at him. There was so much he didn't know about this man, so much he wanted to know. He didn't care if Arthur had stolen things, especially if that was to stay alive. Watching the Englishman, he suddenly smiled gently as he realised something.

"So you do trust me in the end," he said, hand still idly resting on the Englishman's shoulder. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here, telling me all this."

Arthur's blush deepened and he kept his eyes trained on his slightly trembling hands. "I don't really trust you," he said, but Francis was convinced of the very opposite.

"And yet you came to me," he marked. "Why?"

And suddenly he really wanted to know why.

Arthur tensed. Francis could feel his shoulder straining and massaged it lightly. Apparently that was when the Englishman became aware of the hand on his shoulder and snatched it off. "D-don't do that," he blurted, showing great interest in observing the floor.

"Why did you come to me?" Francis repeated his question. For days, no, _weeks_, his Phantom had been hiding from him the best he could, and now, now he was in his room, on his bed, of his free will... A stunning image of Arthur _lying_ on the bed instead of _sitting_ on it flashed in the Frenchman's mind and he nearly chocked on mere air. _Yes_, _he_ _needed to know_...

"Just... to inform you what had happened because of you," the Englishman finally said, but Francis wasn't convinced. "How is it my fault?" he asked.

"I- thought it was you in a corridor but it wasn't, and... Fuck it, whatever, I'm leaving!" Arthur jumped off the bed but was followed by Francis in an instant. An oddly warm feeling washed over him after the Englishman's words, but he hadn't got his answer yet. Before his little Phantom could disappear, he grabbed both his shoulders and forced him to look him in the eyes.

"Don't lie to me," he said lowly, weird desire bubbling within him as he examined the entirely flushed face before him. "Why did you come to me?"

There was a look of a cornered rabbit in those enchanting eyes, and the words Arthur spoke left his lips as a mere whisper. "I don't know."

Francis saw honesty on the other blonde's face and accepted the answer. Yet he didn't let go of him – somehow he couldn't, he didn't want to.

"I see," he murmured, following the play of light and shadow on the pale skin of the Englishman.

"If they..." Arthur started and hesitated before continuing again. "Don't let them find out about me any more than they already have."

Francis gave him a smile. "I won't."

"Thank you." The Englishman granted him a careful smile and then Francis' hands were clutching on air; Arthur had quickly slipped from his grip and was now at the table. He gave Francis one last look, grinning slightly and, Francis could swear, almost teasingly, and put out all the candles. Then the Frenchman heard rustling and a stone moving against stone, followed by silence. Arthur had fled to his secret chambers again.

Francis stood there in darkness, surrounded only by silence and his own thoughts, trying to figure out himself and the strong but pleasant feeling within him. However, not coming to any definitive conclusion, he lied down on his bed, instantly falling asleep.

That night he dreamt of Arthur.

xXx

The following day Francis spent with other staff of the restaurant, particularly with Antonio and Elizaveta. The three of them were walking in the garden of the house and Antonio had astonishing news: he had seen the Phantom.

"He was entirely black, only his face was as white as death!" the Spaniard explained cheerily.

Francis snorted, hiding his amusement. "You were just daydreaming as always, _mon ami_."

Antonio laughed. "I wouldn't imagine such sight in my dreams! You should have seen him; those eyebrows on the white skin could only belong to a real Phantom."

"Why are you so reluctant to believe what Antonio said?" Elizaveta asked the Frenchman and knelt to pick a white rose from a bush, last flowers of the ending summer.

"I don't believe in ghosts," Francis said, shrugging.

"But you were so eager to catch him when you first came here," Antonio stated in slightly defending tone. "Then you had great interest in him."

"Not anymore." It was true enough; Francis was interested in Arthur, no longer in the Phantom. "I realised it's just a fairytale to amuse people."

Both Elizaveta and Antonio pouted. Francis looked at the roses -there were red ones, too- and then thought of Arthur. He knelt down beside the Hungarian and picked a crimson rose.

Elizaveta gave him a sly smile and shifted closer to him. "Gilbert told you have someone on your mind. Constantly," she said.

Francis opened his mouth, just about to say that they all had misunderstood, _not in that way_, but then he shut his mouth again and recalled the last night. _Actually_, he realised, _actually, I think of him very much in that particular way..._ and he twirled the crimson rose in his hands, staring at Elizaveta and having absolutely no idea of what to say. So he said the simplest thing – the truth. "Yes." Eyes moving on the rose in his hands, he swallowed dryly. Where had he gotten himself into? "Yes..."

And the Phantom's magical eyes kept haunting in his mind.

xXx

"So, this is the deal," Roderich, the main owner of the restaurant, spoke as the meeting began. "We are going to make some changes in this place."

Curious mumbling was was heard among gathered staff, but Francis only felt tickling nervousness in the pit of his stomach.

"We have a lot of empty space in this building," Roderich continued, drawing everyone's attention back on himself. "and it is unwise to let it remain so. Thus I have decided that now that we have enough staff and resources, we will turn the whole fourth floor into guest rooms and turn this wonderful restaurant of ours into a small hotel. I have also been presented an interesting offer, but as the details are unsure, I won't speak of it now," he said and added with a small smile, "However, I'm sure it'll become a perfect success."

Nearly everybody in the room burst into cheers and started excited talking, but Francis felt his body going cold. As Roderich moved on to explaining how and what changes would be done, the Frenchman could only think of his little Phantom, who was now about to lose his home.

xXx

The very same evening, Francis accidentally met the Phantom again. The Frenchman was carrying a cake he had made to keep in the cellar over night and his both hands holding the tray, he didn't have any light. Even though it was risky to carry a strawberry cake in almost complete darkness, Francis trusted himself enough to try. He moved slowly and just when he successfully placed his creation on a board, he heard quiet sounds behind him. Spinning around, he could only distinguish a figure approaching but nothing more detailed due to the darkness.

"Hi," the figure said quietly, stopping within few steps from the Frenchman. "It's just me."

Francis let out the breath he had been holding and smiled; after all, you could never know just who it might be hiding in the dark. "Arthur."

Both were then silent for a while, Francis making sure that the cake was safe from humid air or any possible devastators and the Englishman apparently just watching – if he even could see anything that is.

"I was just," Arthur suddenly began, "you know, getting myself something to drink. Or eat."

"Mmm," Francis hummed absently and cursed in his mind, for the cover for the cake was too small.

"And then you came so I just thought I could say hi..."

Francis smiled and turned around. "That's very nice of you," he said, "since you usually run away." He could feel the Englishman shifting awkwardly and added, "Want some cake?"

"Cake?"

"I made some strawberry cake but the cover is too small for it. So why won't you have some of it?"

"But isn't it for tomorrow?"

"It didn't stop you last time," Francis remarked kindly, remembering the first time he was ready to believe in the Phantom.

It was too dark to see the expression on the Phantom's face but he was sure the 'creature of the night' was blushing. Or maybe grinning. With him, one could never know.

"That was before," Arthur said in a slightly defending manner.

"Really? Then why has it changed?"

"Before I didn't know you and you didn't know me. It's more fun to trick people who don't know the guilty one."

"I see," Francis laughed. "But did you really have to spoil my cake back then? It wasn't good for my reputation."

"Serves you right, you swollen-headed frog. It's good for your ego," Arthur commented with a small snort. "Anyway, if you are sure..."

Francis took the tray with the cake and placed it on a box; it would have to do for a table. Both men sat down on the edges of the box, the pastry between them. Francis didn't have any forks or spoons with him, but he had a cake cutter. He offered it to his Phantom and watched -or rather sensed- him taking a careful mouthful.

"Why on earth haven't I cooked you before?" Francis asked himself as the Englishman reached for a second bite. "I have to correct that... Is it good, Arthur?" The question was rather rhetorical though; Francis knew it was, which Arthur confirmed by nodding and giving an approving hum. After that the two remained silent, Arthur eating and Francis wondering if the Englishman knew about Roderich's plans. If he didn't, telling about them would be difficult and unpleasant.

When Arthur finished eating – he had eaten one fourth of the cake – Francis took the rest back on the board. When he turned around, Arthur was standing there, within an arm's length. Francis sensed there was something disturbing the Englishman and decided to speak the inevitable.

"You know about Roderich's plans, do you?" he half stated, half asked.

"Everyone is talking about it. How could I not?"

Francis gave a small 'mm' and unconsciously they started walking towards the secret entrance. They walked side by side, arms brushing every now and then as they tried to avoid tripping over possible objects on the floor.

"So," Francis said when they reached the corner with the secret door. "What will you do?"

"What _can_ I do?" Arthur asked quietly. "Eventually they will find my hiding places in the progress of renovating the fourth floor, so I can't stay there much longer. And even if no one found my secret corridors, living in those narrow spaces would be inhuman." The Englishman uttered a cheerless laughter. "I would be living there like a rat I am."

Francis' heart in his chest squeezed painfully. It was true; after changes in the house there would be no way to live there in secret anymore. Still, hearing Arthur's last comment made Francis cringe. "_'Rat'._" He winced at the choice of words, but then sighed and added sadly, "Already living one's life hiding is inhuman enough."

"Or then I could just live here in the cellar," Arthur continued in a light tone, attempting to lighten the mood. "No more running the stairs up and down for food. It would be easy."

Francis smiled, too. "Yeah, very easy. Who cares that there would be people running here all the time?"

He could hear the grin in the Englishman's voice when he spoke. "Ha, but did you notice me when you came in just moments ago?" Arthur asked almost playfully. "I'll just disappear in shadows when someone comes in and no one will ever find me. I'm good at it," he added.

Francis waved his hand around the nearly pitch-dark space and smiled at the confidence in the other's voice. "Oh, so? But there are no shadows in complete darkness," he just had to say, hand more or less accidentally brushing the Englishman's hair.

"All the better..."

Francis felt Arthur by his side, yet not seeing anything else of him but faint outlines, and suddenly he knew it was true; Arthur could just disappear into darkness any minute and he could do nothing to stop him.

It felt like it was magic moving his arm, not his own will, when Francis raised his arm and placed one hand on the wall on Arthur's left side and the other on his right, capturing the Englishman in between. "There," he said, voice coming out slightly huskily from his throat. "Can't escape anymore..."

Somehow being so close to Arthur without even seeing him was thrilling, unreal, and Francis felt the Englishman's suddenly quickened breath on his skin. It tickled him and sent a burning sensation through his whole body. He had captured the Phantom... He knew he had.

Arthur swallowed. "I... I could... if I wanted, I..."

"_Non_," Francis all but purred, leaning slightly forward. "You can't, otherwise you would have done so already." The warmth radiating from the Englishman's body embraced his skin even through their clothes, and the cold cellar wasn't cold at all anymore. Francis craved for more of that warmth, more than mere tickling, for closer contact. "You can't, because I have captured you... It's true, isn't it? I have captured you in the very same way that you have captured me."

He slid one of his hands from the wall and onto his Phantom, his warm, very real Phantom, caressed the skin along his shoulder to his neck, from where he proceeded to gently feeling his face. It was amazing. It was _amazing_, touching him like that, feeling every movement and expression without seeing them. Unconsciously, the Frenchman draped his other arm around the slim waist, pulling the Englishman closer.

Arthur drew in a sharp breath as he was touched so intimately, and decidedly or not, placed his own hands on Francis' chest. The Frenchman hummed in approval and leant closer, his lips gravitating to those of the Englishman. He felt Arthur's quick, warm breath ghosting on his skin, and-

"Francis!" The door of the cellar was thrown open and Gilbert rushed in. "What the hell is taking you so long?"

Both Arthur and Francis froze, Arthur's eyes wide and alarmed. For a mere instant the Englishman remained tense in the Frenchman's arms, but then seemed to recover and suddenly Francis was embracing air instead of a person. Arthur had squatted, attempting to hide behind a wooden box.

"Huh? Who is it there with you?"

Had it not been Gilbert who had rushed in, the Englishman's attempt would probably have succeeded, but unfortunate to him, the Prussian had unbelievably excellent night vision – Francis suspected it to be due to the oddly crimson eyes – and incredibly curious personality. Realising that he had been seen, Arthur quickly opened the secret door and disappeared inside.

Francis didn't even try to stop him; it would be useless. Instead he turned to the approaching idiot he called his friend. "Gilbert," he said. "Did you really have to rush in _just now_?"

"Huh? Where did he go?" Gilbert muttered, ignoring his friend and looking around as he walked to the corner. "There was a guy here just a moment ago..." Then he deigned to notice Francis again. "What were you doing here anyway?"

The Frenchman shot at him the most murderous glare he could muster and a wide, understanding grin spread on the Prussian's lips. "_Oh_," he said, drawling the word. "So _that_ was the mystery man who had invaded your mind!" The red eyes roamed around the cellar. "Who was it? And where did he go?"

Francis just glared at his friend. They had been _this _close with Arthur, _this close_, and then goddamned Prussian just had to stride in and ruin everything. On top of that, knowing Arthur, the Englishman would now hide and never show his face now that he had been seen again. Or maybe, if Francis was impossibly lucky, Arthur would show up in his room after a month or so and blame him for everything... in which case the Frenchman wouldn't let him go so easily anymore.

Gilbert, meanwhile, observed the surroundings, determined to find where his friend's object of passion. "Man, did your little lover disappear through the wall?" he complained, his choice of words making Francis shiver pleasantly. "Actually..." The Prussian bent to examine the wall more carefully.

Francis watched him, not uttering a word, not trying to stop him. What could he say, anyway? Arthur's secret was crumbling into pieces, especially now that Gilbert had found out about him. The more Francis thought about it, the more useless it it felt to lie or avoid telling the truth.

"His name is Arthur," he said plainly. "Thanks for ruining the moment."

"Arthur?" Gilbert frowned and straightened. "There are no arthurs in our staff."

"True," Francis admitted. "But there is one in this house."

The Prussian offered him a look that suggested him to be somewhat nutty. Before he could ask more, Francis sighed and shook his head. "No. I won't be telling anything more before I've talked with him." _And Lord knows when _that_ will happen_, he added silently to himself, frustrated to resign himself to helpless waiting once again.

Because, as he had suspected, Arthur did let him wait. Not for eternity, not even for weeks, but for two days only. Yet those two days were enough to make Francis ready to break through the stone walls with his own bare hands to find the Englishman. And of course just about _everybody_ got to know _something_ about the Frenchman and his mysterious love affair – you could always count on Gilbert when it came to that. It was incredibly irritating that the _entire house_ was waiting for the Englishman to appear again.

When Arthur finally showed up, however, it happened in private, inside protective walls of Francis' room.

It was evening, and the Frenchman was lying on his bed, not caring to join the others in the living room and restlessly wondering when he would meet Arthur again. His speculation, however, was interrupted by the already familiar rustling of the secret stone doors. Francis' heart skipped a beat at the sound and he sat up on his bed, awaiting for the Englishman.

There were few candles on the table illuminating the room, and even though the light was dim, Arthur had to squint as he stepped into the room from the complete darkness of the corridor. He closed the door behind him and located the Frenchman only to know where not to look, as it seemed to Francis. "Hi," he greeted the floor, not coming further into the room.

"And here I thought I would have to wait for weeks," Francis said dryly. After all, it is very frustrating when your partner escapes after an almost-kiss, leaving you to wonder when you'll see him again. "You never stop surprising me."

Apparently sensing the slight hurt in the Frenchman's voice, Arthur looked at him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, a rosy shade rising to his cheeks. Francis smiled – as if he could stay mad at someone so adorable. "Come here," he said and patted the sheets beside him. Arthur sent him a glare but obeyed, though so warily it was almost offending. Francis laughed, keeping his hands to himself regardless of the itchy feeling in them. "I won't bite," he reassured the Englishman airily, soon adding slyly, "Yet."

"Git," Arthur said, blushing but lips melting into a grin. "You did it again by the way," he informed the Frenchman, meeting his gaze and crossing his arms. "I was seen because of you."

"Oh, so? But weren't it you who boasted how easily you would disappear if someone walked in?"

"You were... distracting me."

Francis laughed playfully, putting on an innocent face. "In which way exactly, if I may ask?"

"Stupid frog,"Arthur muttered and then proved Francis' earlier statement about being unexpected to be very true. "Like this..." He gently touched the Frenchman's cheek with one hand, and finding courage in successful beginning, held Francis' face between both of his hands. Slowly he leaned forward and, halting only for a fraction of a second, lightly touched the Frenchman's lips with his own before pulling back and letting his hands fall on his lap.

The kiss had been very short and very light, almost only lips barely brushing, but it sent jolts of electricity through Francis body and set his senses on fire. Desire started slowly but passionately burning within him, but he knew better than to claim the Englishman's lips again, this time deeply. Even the light kiss Arthur had granted him seemed to be a trial for the Englishman, and Francis wanted to proceed on his terms. Besides, Arthur looked like he wasn't done yet, so Francis contented to simply smiling gently at him.

Arthur looked nervous and hesitant again, hands playing with his cloak. It took him a while to start speaking, but Francis waited patiently.

"This is," the Englishman finally started, casting a glance at the Frenchman, "your fault to begin with." Francis raised his eyebrow at this but didn't interrupt, and Arthur continued. "Ever since you entered this building, ever since I saw you..." He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath and struggling to get the words out. "My world was derailed – literally. You tried to find me, catch me. It became more challenging to move around when I knew you were always alert. And – and knowing that, somehow, it became harder and harder to wish that you wouldn't succeed."

Francis listened to him silently, unbelievably touched by the shy confession. He opened his mouth, but Arthur shushed him. "Don't! I need to finish." He cleared his throat. "Bloody frog, you have no idea what you did to me. I was being torn apart by two choices – I still am. Do you have any idea of what kind of hell it is?"

Actually, remembering all the agony Arthur had caused him, Francis believed he had, but wisely chose to remain silent.

"And when you that one night fell on top of me in the cellar, I..." The Englishman shrugged. "I guess that was when I knew I was to lose. That was when I realised that I..." He seemed to be choking on the words, forcing them out. Francis watched him as he observed the floor, face flaming red. "That I had somehow fallen in love with you."

The words were followed by silence. Francis couldn't almost believe what he had just heard for it was too good to be true. "Arthur..." he began, but was cut off by the Englishman again. Arthur placed his fingers on Francis lips and finally looked him in the eyes. "And that's why we have to bid farewell," he said quietly, eyes desperately on Francis', full of emotion.

Too good, indeed. Francis' heart froze in his chest. "What?"

Breathing heavily, Arthur looked away again but every now and then his eyes returned on the Frenchman. "We both know I can't stay here anymore, eventually I would be found. No, don't give me that look," he nearly pleaded when Francis was about to protest. "You don't understand. While it's true that I became a thief to save my life, I have also stolen more... expensive things than food from... some nasty people." The Englishman uttered a bitter laughter. "Now is the payback time I suppose. This. This situation."

"Arthur-"

"Don't!" Arthur interrupted him again, almost shouting. On the contrary to Francis, his breathing was quick and heavy and he looked being on the verge of collapsing. "I have prepared what I'll now say so don't crumble it all by interrupting!"

Francis shut his mouth, thinking that if something was crumbling it was his heart. Lips forming a straight, tight line, he stared at Arthur, waiting for what more he had to say.

The Englishman seemed to be momentarily shocked at Francis actually listening to him, but then he took a hold of himself. "I have to live my life hiding," he said, "And I can't ask you to... to do the same for me. I could never ask you to come with me." The words came out as a mere whisper, and Francis saw green eyes suddenly filling with tears. Vaguely wondering that shouldn't it be _him_ who was crying, he continued to look at the small man beside him, not making any gestures to sooth or comfort him. He just sat still and waited. Arthur had wanted to finish without being interrupted, Francis thought a bit coldly, so let him do so.

"I've seen you cooking," the Englishman sniffed, trying to suppress the sobs that shook his body. "This is what you want. This is what you love..."

Francis found himself speaking before even realising it."I would leave it all for you," he said monotonously and immediately realised that it was true; what he felt for Arthur was deep and real, and he would abandon his current way of life in order to be with him. He did understand how unwise it probably was, or that the feeling might as well be only magic of the green eyes, but he didn't care. He had finally found true love, and wasn't going to let it go. He would choose Arthur over anything.

But Arthur shook his head furiously, as if trying to convince himself as much as the Frenchman. "We are from different worlds Francis, and I can't drag you into mine."

"Then I'll drag you into _mine_!" Francis said rather sternly. "I swore that I wouldn't let you go anymore, and I'm man of my word. You can start everything over again!"

"People like me are not given a second chance in this society," Arthur said quietly, wiping his tears and shaking his head, determined not to show any more of tears. "Rich, magnificent people never forget if someone has taken something from their abundance." Anger momentarily filling the Englishman's voice, he snorted. "Even though they have everything and more! They are the greediest, those bastards." Then he sighed, anger fading away. "This is the end of my lazy life it seems. I'll be on the run again. Francis..." He looked at Francis but couldn't finish whatever he had been intending to say, his eyes sad and pleading for understanding.

Francis didn't understand, at all. But he saw determination in those emerald eyes, and the ache in his chest increased, turning from dull to more sharp and piercing. Arthur had decided to go away, believing it was his only choice, and Francis wouldn't be able to make him stay without forcing. He watched him, the man he was in love with, watched him with pain obvious in his eyes. Arthur couldn't bare his gaze and turned away, tears starting to run down his cheeks again despite his vain efforts to maintain his composure.

Francis raised his hand and gently brushed the wet cheek. Arthur looked at him, and he wiped some of his tears away. Having too much to say, too much to do, too much to _feel_, the Frenchman could do nothing but look at his lover. "Let me hold you," he only said, hoarsely, as if his throat was burning, and wrapped his arms around the slim, trembling body of the Englishman. "Let me hold you for tonight..."

They spent the whole night in silence, wrapped around each other and not letting go for one moment. Hours passed by slowly, but no night was long enough for lovers whose paths were to be diverged.

xXx

Francis awoke in an empty bed.

Having not expected anything else, he sat up, blankly surveying his room: no sight of Arthur. Of course. Giving a small, bitter laughter, Francis got up and dressed. He had to go to work, no matter how sad or angry or disappointed he was. His heart aching, he opened the door and started to walk down the stairs to the first floor, wondering if he would see Arthur ever again. The renovation of the house wasn't to be started earlier than in a month, but knowing Arthur, he might as well hide until the last moment he would have to go, or perhaps he hadn't even waited for renovation and had fled already. Without another word.

In the kitchen Francis found his co-workers in an awfully cheery mood. Cooks were chatting with each other while busily preparing their meals, waiters were running hither and thither and people totally uninvolved with the "restaurant" part, such as gardeners or cleaners, were just killing their time by bothering those who were actually working. Everybody was so excited about the changes in the restaurant that it made Francis sick.

"Good morning, buddy!" Gilbert grinned and smacked his back. "Huh? Why so sour? Got dumped or what?"

Gilbert's unintentional verbal knife stabbed right into Francis' heart and he couldn't but shoot a murderous glare at his friend. "Something like that," he grunted and turned to his worktop.

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the Prussian's face falling. "Wh- Seriously?" Francis merely nodded and took his apron from a drawer, putting it on.

"I-I..." Gilbert was scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, and had he not felt so terrible at the moment, Francis would have laughed at his friend's helplessness in such matters as emotions. "Uh, I'm really sorry, Francis."

"It's okay," he replied, tying his long hair to a ponytail.

"Want to talk about it?"

Gilbert being so sympathetic and actually asking that question somehow touched Francis, and he gave his friend a smile. "Now is not the best of times," he pointed out, gesturing at the hastiness in the kitchen. "But I appreciate the offer. _Merci_."

"If you're sure..." Gilbert muttered, and as Francis assured him that he was sure and that they should both return to their tasks, got back to his work.

The day dragged by slowly, painfully slowly, and the Frenchman's mood didn't improve by the evening, though he was positively surprised to find that even by the evening, no one else but Gilbert and himself knew about his misery, which he gave the Prussian credit for; for once he hadn't blabbered the news to the whole staff. After his shift, Francis went straight to his room, intending to sulk there for the rest of the evening and see if Arthur would visit him. As expected, Arthur didn't, but instead Gilbert, Antonio and Elizaveta knocked on his door.

After a mug of warm milk and subtle questions, the Frenchman ended up telling his closest friends what had happened, excluding the fact that Arthur was the Phantom. But he explained that his lover had to move, mostly because of the renovation, and that he refused to even think of Francis accompanying him for "it was the best" for the Frenchman.

"But at least he loves you..." Elizaveta said kindly. "It's better than if he left you because he hated you."

"I don't know," Francis responded, "In that case at least there would be no regrets about it."

"And he refuses to stay?" Antonio asked, frowning. "Why?"

"He... can't."

"If it would be easier for you that he doesn't love you," Gilbert joined the conversation to offer his opinion, "then maybe he can't stay because he _doesn't_ love you?"

Elizaveta sent a furious glare at the Prussian, punching his arm none too softly. Francis felt a cold, sharp knife twitching in his heart at the thought and he winced. "I think I changed my mind. I prefer to think that he still loves me."

"Well at least now you know that," Gilbert said grinning, rubbing his arm where it had been hit. "Now you won't have to regret thinking otherwise." Despite himself, Francis couldn't help but return the grin. The Prussian had an odd way of comforting, but in some twisted way, it helped nonetheless.

"Or just don't let him go," Antonio said, smiling again. "As simple as that."

If only it was as simple as that, Francis thought and smiled tiredly. But for now, he could only hope for a miracle.

Arthur didn't show up that night.

xXx

"I swear I heard faint weeping last night when I was in the storage room," Katyusha whispered to Elizaveta when they were taking their seats at another meeting concerning the renovation of the restaurant. "The Phantom must be at his wits' end for some reason."

"Good gracious, I wonder why," Elizaveta responded. Then Francis saw her frowning slightly, and she turned to Francis, raising her eyebrow. Francis, however, pretended to be focused on Roderich as the Austrian cleared his throat to begin speaking. Getting no response from the Frenchman, Francis saw the Hungarian trying to catch Gilbert's eyes instead. Hopefully she wasn't suspecting anything; her imagination together with Gilbert's description of what had happened in the cellar meant no good for Arthur's secrets.

"May I have your attention please?" Roderich said, getting everybody to at least pretend looking like listening to him without raising his voice. "By this time, I have got a detailed plan of the changes we will make. I'd appreciate your attention while I explain them."

Francis didn't even want to listen. Because of those changes, he was losing his Phantom, and instead of paying attention to Roderich's words, he felt like jumping on the table and yelling that didn't they understand, they will lose the Phantom if they carry on with the plans. Naturally he couldn't do that, but he wasn't keen on hearing the plans anyway. As the Austrian kept going with his explanations, Francis' mind drifted away, back to the moment when he had held Arthur in his arms, so close, so warm...

"Very good. Now that we know this all, I shall tell you about the interesting offer I mentioned in the last meeting. Details have now been confirmed, and I am proud to announce you all that we are opening a new restaurant, a new branch you could say. In France."

There was an awestruck silence in the room as the words sunk in everybody's mind. They reached even Francis, and he blinked. A new branch... in France?

"Oh my God!" someone squeaked in a high voice, and that broke the walls of silence. Roderich surveyed calmly his workers as they began enthusiastic talking, all speaking one over the other. Francis didn't join the cheery chatter, but he turned to the owner and asked, "What does this mean _de facto_?"

"It means," Roderich said, clapping his hands a few times to get the attention back to himself. "It means that we are opening a new restaurant in France, in Paris to be precise. My Parisian colleague and I have agreed on collaborating. We'll be associates, both equally owning both restaurants, and I'll send from ten to twenty of you in Paris. Of course," he added, "no one will be forced to go. But I do sincerely hope to have enough volunteers."

The chatting began again, even more excited than before if possible, and Francis stared in front of him, eyes empty but thoughts rapidly racing in his head.

Arthur couldn't stay in the restaurant because he would be found. He couldn't be found because he was wanted in Britain. He didn't want to take Francis "under ground" with him because Francis loved working in the restaurant. But Arthur wasn't wanted in France. And the restaurant was partly moving to France.

"_Oh!_" Francis could barely prevent himself from jumping up. Several pairs of eyes fixed on him, but he didn't even notice. He had a solution – a solution! Now he only needed to present it to Arthur... how would he get Arthur to show up?

"Now he finally fully lost it," Francis heard Gilbert whispering to Antonio, who merely laughed in response and said, smiling as ever, "I'm not sure about that, _amigo._"

Francis winked them and for once eagerly listened what Roderich had to say about the details of the new arrangement. This wasn't ignored by his friends, who, after the meeting, tried to ask him what it was what got him from so sulky to incredibly cheery, but he waved them off and waltzed to his room, promising to explain everything later for at the moment his mind was too occupied on figuring out how he would get to talk with Arthur.

It didn't turn out that hard in the end. Francis climbed up to the fourth floor and simply called for the Englishman, knowing that Arthur would eventually show up just to tell him to shut up – just why hadn't he tried it before? And he was right.

"What the hell Francis?" Francis turned around at the sound and saw his little Phantom crawling from behind a huge oak shelf. He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest while the Frenchman kept beaming at him. "What?"

"Say, Arthur," Francis said, putting on a theatrically serious expression. "Do you speak any French?"

xXx

"What?" Gilbert almost chocked on the milk he was drinking. "You are dating the Phantom?"

"You are dating the Phantom!" Elizaveta all but squealed.

"The Phantom?" Antonio repeated in disbelief. "That _eyebrow_-spook?"

Francis laughed and relaxedly leaned back on his bed as his three friends kept staring at him demandingly, each of them craving for details according to their own interests.

"Has he been stealing our food for all this time?"

"Was it him who had made those poisoned scones back then?"

"Have you kissed yet?"

"To all of you, yes. Though, Gilbert, I'm still mad at you for interrupting us in the cellar the other day," Francis said, not being able to stop grinning no matter how he tri- to hell with it, he didn't even _try_. He had no reason to. In a couple of weeks he would be heading back to France with his lover, to work in a restaurant with his closest friends. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ could make it any better anymore. Oh, except that Arthur was about to meet his friends, though it wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"Remember to act civilly when he comes," Francis warned the trio in his room. "And remember that as soon as you've said 'hi' you're off."

"Yeah yeah yeah."

Gilbert, Antonio and Elizaveta were the only ones whom Francis had, with Arthur's permission, trusted the truth about the Phantom. The rest of the staff were to believe that he was just someone Francis had found in London. Oh, he could hardly wait for the departure!

His happy daydreams were interrupted as the oh so awaited rustle of the secret entrance was heard, and his heart fluttered in anticipation and, truth be told, worry about his friends' behaviour.

"He is here!"

"..._Gott_, Are those _eyebrows_?"

"I told you they are huge!"

You could always count on your friends. Francis jumped up, afraid that the trio would scare Arthur away. "Arthur-"

"Do you have a fucking _problem_ with my eyebrows?"

"What eyebrows, I can see only caterpillars!"

"At least they can be seen, unlike yours you fucking albino!"

"Boys, boys..."

Francis stared at the scene, dumbfounded. Arthur, Gilbert and Antonio had instantly found a common understanding, which was throwing insults and profanities at one another.

But apparently the Frenchman wasn't the only one not approving the quarrel. Elizaveta gave an exasperated sigh and with three hits, one for every participant of the bicker, got the trio silenced. "This is not time for that," she scolded them, pushing the three men apart rather forcefully, so that Arthur almost stumbled into Francis. "Arthur has more important things to do that to quarrel with you."

"Oh, what?" Antonio asked curiously and gave Francis a sly smile. Elizaveta joined him for the smile and chuckled softly as Arthur coloured under her suggestive looks. "Maybe they'll tell us tomorrow," she said pointedly and shepherded protesting Gilbert and grinning Antonio out of the room.

Arthur, arms tightly crossed across his chest, watched the door closing and snorted. "How can you have those bastards as your friends?"

"Well, I have you as my lover, so what's the big deal?"

"You-!" Arthur swatted the Frenchman's arm, and Francis laughed. He quickly caught the Englishman's wrist and pulled him towards the table, still tasting the word _lover_ in his mouth. It was sweet, though slightly salty, and it felt soft, comfortably rolling on his mouth.

"What?" Arthur inquired as he was sat down at the small table.

"I just recently realised," Francis explained, casually putting out all the candles save for one, "that I have neglected two things I should have done already long ago." He walked to his shelf and opened it, taking out a large tray covered with a cupola. He placed it on the table in front of the Englishman and removed the cupola, bringing out into the open an entire variety of small-sized dishes. "_Voilà_!" he announced proudly, running his hand through his hair.

Arthur stared first at the tray before him, then at the Frenchman standing beside him. Even in the dim light, Francis could see a light shade of crimson creeping on his cheeks. "You cooked," Arthur blurted out the rather obvious fact.

"_Mais oui_, pardon my mistake of not doing it earlier."

"And..." The Englishman fumbled with the edge of the tray, trying to appear indifferent. "What is the second thing?"

Francis laid his hand on Arthur's crown, mixing his fingers in the sandy hair, then moved lower to caress the cheekbone and finally place his fingers under the Englishman's chin, lifting his face up. "The second thing," he said, leaning down towards the flushed face, "is that I haven't told you something I ought have told long ago." Gently he pressed his lips to those of the Englishman for a chaste kiss. "_Je t'aime, mon_ _Fantôme_," he whispered against the thin lips before straightening again and smiling down at his companion.

The Englishman blinked a couple of times. "Mmm..." he mumbled absently and then caught himself. "I-I mean, I still don't understand frog!"

Francis chuckled and sat at the table, facing his companion. "I love you," he explained with an easy smile.

"Oh..."

"Well," Francis said, taking a bottle of red wine and pouring the fine drink into two glasses. He offered one to Arthur, who gladly accepted it. "To the future," the Frenchman said, raising his glass.

"To the future," Arthur agreed with a small smile and clanged their glasses together. "I hope you know that this is horribly cliché," he uttered after taking a sip of his wine.

"Perhaps, but it works, _non_?"

Arthur shrugged, attempting to appear indifferent. "I suppose it does..."

"So let yourself take pleasure in it," Francis urged and gestured at the food, Arthur instantly taking the hint; those delicious-looking dishes had been tempting him long enough already.

The night was pleasant; for Francis it was the first night for weeks that he was able to fully revel in peace, and for Arthur it was probably the first night in his whole life that he could truly enjoy instead of having to hide in its shadows.

Moreover, for the first time Francis and Arthur could enjoy their evening together without having to fear what the following morning would bring along; though despite the fact that the night was still young, there still was no night long enough for two lovers. No matter the long path they were to share together.

X


End file.
